


Pray You Forgive Me

by Kelbora



Series: Never Your Hero [4]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: American Civil War, Angst, Depictions of Historical Figures, Gen, Mentions of Death, Reader Discretion Always Advised, War, historical fiction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-27 21:45:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18199715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kelbora/pseuds/Kelbora
Summary: 'For all I cannot bring myself to say, yet all that needs to be said...I am returning your last gift to me, one I admittedly did not cherish for what it was until years too late. Perhaps in your hour of need you can appreciate this…and see just how much you've grown –' (Historical Fiction. Disclaimer after Original Notes From the Author)





	Pray You Forgive Me

_**Disclaimer:**  I do not own Hetalia. I am merely a fan who appreciates the ingenious glory of such masterful tomfoolery._

_**Warning:**  Strong Language, Graphic Scenes, Gore and Violence_

**Story Characters:**

**-** England/ Arthur Kirkland

-Wales/ Emrys Kirkland

 **-** America/ Alfred F. Jones

 **Time Frame:**  American Civil War

 

**~Pray You Forgive Me~**

( _US_  &  _UK_ )

 

A Terran white cloud; a weightless formation of organic fibers plucked from the razored bolls of the plants that bore them. White gold no longer meant the wool of sheep, but this small, soft breath in his hand. This unspun, imperfect ball that would someday become part of the finest clothes made by human hands; a fine gown for a lady at court, a cloak fit for priest, or even a robe for his majesty.

To think, betrayal had been bought with the potential in this insignificant uncut diamond.

"I didn't authorize this," he said in a low tone. "And you knew I wouldn't."

The man standing behind him looked neither ashamed nor concerned. With his hands clasped behind his back, he watched as the departed ship continued to vanish on the horizon. It was a crown jewel of the sea, a fine warship made by British hands and commissioned with Confederate white gold.

"She's not the first," the man replied.

"No…but I will ensure she is the last."

Silence hung in the air between them – a Confederate naval officer, and the British gentleman. What had begun that morning as an inquiry with the prime minister into the claims that British shipbuilding companies were taking contracts from the war-torn America, aiding in furthering the tensions there, had resulted in a frantic run for the Plymouth seaport.

He'd been too late to stop the ship, and now watched powerless as she sailed to the war across the Atlantic.

"I assure you, Lord Kirkland, the utmost secrecy was used in her creation," the American began. "Not even you knew she existed until now."

When the blond said nothing, the Southern gentleman stepped forward, still watching the horizon with pride. "The stance on neutrality has not been breeched; this is simply a business transaction between myself and the John Laird Sons and Company. No more need be said."

A lie concealed in a thin veil of truths no one without a stake in the matter would bother to see through. The universal reality of war was that it brought needs; needs that sell-swords, privateers and entrepreneurs had been capitalizing on since the dawn of trade. No nation was free of the sins wrought by the promise of gain despite loss of life, but this…

He might as well have taken both ends of America and ripped it apart himself.

Unclenching his hand, Arthur let the forgotten wad of cotton stray in the wind, still feeling the sting of its uncombed thorns in his skin. He watched it disappear as he did the now vanished ship and felt his chest constrict, both from anger and grief.

"It is written that the lowest circle of Hell is reserved for traitors, Mr. Bulloch."

The American narrowed his eyes and focused his intense glare on Lord Kirkland's back. "As I said when presenting Captain Semmes his commission, we are sons of the South and will do all it takes to see the Confederate States of America free of its northern oppressor."

Arthur let those words settle in his mind as he recalled a similar retort said so long ago. How many agents of revolution had engaged in similar acts and thought nothing of their treason? How many times had he done it himself…how many times had he been accused of being the tyrant?

"If your so-called North is your standard for oppression, then you, sir, clearly lack the capacity for self-reflection and have no idea what a true oppressor is," Arthur began, and finally turned burning green eyes upon the man who used the labor of his land to bring suffering to a place he once called home. "Never cross my path again, Mr. Bulloch, for I will make it my personal mission to educate you on the true meaning of the word."

* * *

The vessel, known as the  _Enrica_  when she left English waters, claimed the fates of 65 American Union ships. With an American captain and primarily British crew, the  _CSS Alabama_  had devastated shipping lines from France, to Brazil, to Cape Hope. Together with her sister ships combing the ocean, they had all but crippled the Union sea trade.

It had been more than two years since Arthur stood on the docks of Plymouth and watched the great ship elude him, just as she had every captain who had ever sailed after her since. Aside from preventing any more British-made ships leaving for Confederate commission, Arthur had done his best to keep out of America's Civil War and focus on the affairs of his own country. However, while he busied himself keeping a closer eye on his neighbors, France and Germany, the actions of Napoleon and Bismarck couldn't fully distract him from the effect the war between Lincoln and Davis was having on his former America. He couldn't escape thinking about his sky-blue eyed son when he stood before the members of Parliament, in audience with his Prime Minister or his majesty, and especially when he found himself alone in his estate…with nothing but his thoughts and memories for company.

The memories were both painful and bittersweet.

"You've got that look about you again. You're thinking faraway thoughts."

Arthur said nothing as he stood before the hearth of his study. The flames glowed and danced to the slow melody of crackling embers, giving off the sweet smell of burning wood that triggered so many reminiscences within in him.

The slight man who had entered the room approached him from behind, coming to a halt beside the Englishman as he crossed his arms and leaned back against the fireplace. The man had dark auburn hair full of curls that fell about his ears; his skin was lightly tanned and his eyes were the darkest color of honeyed brown. His brows were thick, much like his English companion's, but his face seemed far younger. The wiry fellow had a lighter air about him and a softer expression than his counterpart. He seemed inquisitive, yet patient…he always had that look for his youngest brother.

"You survived more than one,  _brawd_ ," the man offered in a calm tone.

"But he is not me," Arthur returned closing his eyes; some part of him hoping it would shut his brother out from the turmoil inside.

The brunette smiled and rested his head against the stone wall. "Thank the Christian God for that."

Though it was a jab at him, Arthur knew it was done so without malice. Of all his brothers, his Welsh sibling was the only one who could look at him with genuine affection and attempt to make it contagious. Despite a long history of wars on political and battle fronts, his second-eldest brother refused to turn his back on the rebellious child he'd been entrusted with eons ago. Whether it was eternal loyalty to his female predecessor or loyalty to the thick familial blood between them, the man never gave up on him.

Emrys was the only family member Arthur had who knew just how much America's Civil War was tearing him to pieces.

Arthur lifted his head and looked up at the mantle above the fireplace, his eyes settling on the books lined there without focusing on any of them.

"My kingdom is supposed to be neutral, yet more than half of the British-made ships in commission for the Confederate States are manned by British sailors, armed with British weapons and secretly funded by British pounds," he began, remembering every roster he received bearing the names of more casualties his people had suffered in this foreign conflict. "Civil Wars are supposed to be private affairs…yet my country watches it with such eager anticipation I cannot help but feel sick."

Silence stretched between them as Arthur leaned forward and braced himself against the stone of the fireplace, tightening his grip on it. "It's like cheering on the executioner as he quarters a child."

The Welshman gave a thoughtful expression as he watched his brother try desperately to hide his pain. The older man understood as all ancient nations did about the terrors of a land ripping itself to shreds. As one who had endured watching Arthur battle through his own civil wars (from both sides of each conflict), he sympathized with both the Englishman and the American boy he'd never met.

He derived no pleasure from seeing Arthur suffer during those times of civil unrest, much as Arthur gained nothing but anguish seeing Alfred struggle across the Atlantic.

The Welshman withdrew a folded document from his coat and held it out to his brother with an offered hand. Arthur returned his gaze, but did not move to take it; all letters he had received lately only bore horrible news.

After a moment, the Welshman spoke, "The ship known as the  _CSS Alabama_  was engaged and sunk today off the coast of France."

A visible jolt shot through Arthur's body, but Emrys continued. "The USS  _Kearsarge_ tracked her down as she was leaving Cherbourg; the estimated number of casualties was forty, with forty-one survivors rescued by a British yacht...they made it to Southampton a few hours ago. The crew has been placed under asylum until further notice."

Arthur remained staring at the man and the letter in tense silence. His mind worked through all of the possible scenarios of what had happened – from naval battle to the arrival at the port, and finally what would happen once the  _Kearsarge_  returned to America's Union and reported what had taken place. As soon as word of a British rescue of the Confederate crew reached circulation the entire North would be in an uproar. Relations between the Union and Great Britain were already tense because of the suspected Anglo favor of the South…this would only incite a maelstrom of political and public fury.

With numb fingers, Arthur took the letter from his brother's hand and held it before him long enough to see the official Naval seal before throwing it into the fire. Emrys said nothing as Arthur pitched the document, and the Welshman watched as the anger and anxiety rose in the man's eyes. Arthur's hands were clenched and tight at his sides, his eyes blazing with hate for the present and fear for the future; there was tension in his shoulders and his breaths were shallow and fast. They both knew what this meant, but Emrys did his brother no service by hiding the truth, and they both knew it.

"It's best to know now before the inquiries come later, _Lloegr_ ," the brunette began. "If there is any consolation from this to be had, it is that this ship is no longer in commission."

Arthur's face reddened at that and he turned an angry expression towards the Welshman.

"Even more British blood has been shed in this God-forsaken war, and I am to celebrate it before the hammer across the sea comes down to demand payment for losses already suffered?" he demanded, raising a fist to slam it against the mantle above the fire. "I warned Palmerston and Russell that there would be consequences to any kind of involvement in this, and not just on the political front, but from –" Arthur stopped himself and quickly looked away as his thoughts trailed off without a voice.

But Emrys didn't need to hear it, he knew. Without a word he pushed off the wall and stepped towards his brother, placing a hand on the other's shoulder that Arthur never acknowledged. The Welshman gave him a comforting squeeze before leaning in to offer what advisement he could.

"The actions of our government and what we feel is right don't always coincide. You've known this for a long time…perhaps this is an opportunity to teach him that."

"Even if my words were allowed to reach Alfred, he would never accept them," Arthur returned, his heart breaking at the thought as his anger became replaced with sorrow. "I wouldn't in his place either."

Emrys knew Arthur needed time to think and sort out the situation and his feelings. What brilliance the man had in politics and warfare he sadly lacked in personal communication and emotions. Clasping his brother's shoulder again and bidding him goodnight, the Welshman took his leave to begin drafting a response to the ashes in the fireplace. He decided he could at least deal with the wolves for a time while Arthur was facing his own demons.

Emrys's words stayed with Arthur that night, and long after his brother's departure the Englishman found himself before a long-forgotten chest buried in the recesses of his cellar. This particular corner of the storage vault was nigh inaccessible and inhabited only by the most valuable items Arthur felt worth preserving over the course of his long life. Within a trunk of clothing, beside his tattered crimson uniform, was the article he sought…and for the first time in almost eighty-three years he ran a hand over the faded surface and remembered how much a single act of kindness had meant to him.

* * *

_One thousand, four hundred and fifty eight…_

He knew so many days had passed since then, but he was forever stuck on that number.

_One thousand, four hundred and fifty eight…_

No passage of time made sense to either part of him back then except counting how many sunrises each man on the battlefield had been blessed with greeting. It meant he too had made it through the night, and gave him one more prayer that he might see another. He had counted one thousand, four hundred and fifty-eight sunrises without ever seeing a ray of sunlight, always trapped in that room beneath the White House where he couldn't harm himself, or anyone else.

He never prayed for death, and he never prayed for any of his citizens on either side to die.

Unfathomable numbers of his people had lost their lives over those one thousand, four hundred and fifty-eight days. He remembered so many names and faces of individuals he had never met, yet he saw them when they took up arms, when they lay dying, and when they drew their last breaths. He screamed with so many in the dark when their vision faded, cried with others as they watched themselves bleed to death, and tried to hold terrified lads when they lay alone in their trenches trying to remember why this was all worth dying for. He felt the pain of people yearning for freedom and the unconscionable desperation of those selling their souls to keep it from them. However strongly he held personal convictions, it drove him mad that he couldn't voice a cause to sympathize with or hate; he couldn't declare a leader he loved or loathed more, and were it not for his oath to Lincoln he wasn't sure he could justify remaining complacent in confinement while so many died. It had been nothing short of hell, and when it was all over he couldn't stop thinking:

_One thousand…four hundred…fifty-eight._

It had been seven years and three Presidents since then; and now, for the first time since his latest boss was sworn in, he found himself back in Washington. The days after the war had been as difficult as they'd been during it, and President Lincoln had done all he could to see to his charge's wellbeing upon the signing of the Confederate surrender at Appomattox. While Alfred had been completely unapproachable during those more than four years of war, he'd been near unresponsive afterwards. Human medical attention was almost completely ineffective, but there was no lack of trying on his boss's part. He had begun an upturn in health before Lincoln's assassination, and Johnson's term did little to strengthen the avatar or the country's condition. It took Alfred exiling himself from Washington to improve things, and slowly but surely he had begun to find renewed strength in renewing his bonds with his people. The government was forever in a frenzy, and while the war had left a severe divide between his regions the people were rebuilding relations faster than the politicians.

The people were inventing, growing, creating and moving. They were traveling, trading, sharing and determined to move forward in a way that inspired Alfred.

They healed him better than Washington ever could, and returning to it had only filled him with anxiety and dread.

As Alfred journeyed down the halls of the White House, many unfamiliar faces turned and gave him suspicious glances. Many unfamiliar people paused, and looked prepared to stop him, before his uncaring air brushed them off as he continued on his way. Security was a new concept to Washington, something only recently implemented after Lincoln's assassination, and it was only after Alfred reached the Oval Office that a man in a black tie and waistcoat rushed towards him and demanded he halt.

Alfred gave him one look and didn't so much as bat an eye, but stopped…only because President Grant was opening the door.

Grant was an old warhorse, a man with a military cut from head to chin. He dressed in sharp suits and uniforms with creases that could cut steel and an expression that could equal the damage. Alfred had only met him once when he was a general, and once as President when he was being sworn in. His last trip to Washington had only been to renew his oath to his new boss before he returned to traveling, where his heart truly belonged, and now he only returned because he had received a telegram ordering his presence.

President Grant wasn't a man who requested anything. Period.

The guard froze as Grant and Alfred exchanged looks before the blond was silently ushered in. The door was shut and locked behind them and Alfred's anxiety began to rise even more. He was beginning to feel claustrophobic and trapped. He hadn't been locked in a room in Washington in just over six years.

"You seem to have settled in nicely, sir," Alfred offered, trying to hide his discomfort.

Grant didn't return the comment as he made his way to his desk and rounded it, withdrawing a document from a drawer and unraveling it before him.

Alfred could see that his boss was ready to get down to business.

"In summation of the meeting concluding the Treaty of Washington, previously conducted on the 8th of March, 1871: the British Empire, Dominion of Canada, and United States of America hereby agree to officially complete the demilitarization of the U.S. – Canadian border. The British Empire and Dominion of Canada also open U.S. fishing activities into specified Canadian territorial waters and open further industrialization into the Great Lakes," Grant said in a deep and gravelly voice, continuing on despite the look on his audience's face. "It is also hereby established that, this year 1872, the British Empire will pay the sum of 15.5 million dollars to the United States of America for damages caused by vessels which were a violation of neutrality committed by means of the construction, equipment, and armament of said vessels during the periods of 1861 to 1865."

_One thousand, four hundred and fifty-eight._

As the President placed the document on the desk, Alfred continued to stare ahead with an overwhelmed expression. He had known Britain had been involved in helping the South during the war; he had sailed on some of those British-made ships during his fitful nights and even stood as a phantom next to a Confederate broker closing a deal with another English arms dealer. He never left his cell during those days, but he had seen everything; everywhere there had been an American from either side he had seen it, and it made his stomach churn.

He couldn't deny that some part of him had asked if Arthur hadn't condoned all of it. If he hadn't been sitting back and letting him be destroyed so horribly…if he couldn't have been trying to save him instead.

Childish but…he'd be lying if he hadn't admitted that the thought had been there, and torturing him inside.

"I don't understand. I thought the Empire said that they would never admit to anything?"  _That's what they said to Lincoln when he first accused them, and Johnson when he demanded they confess._

"If you would have been here, you would understand much more than that," Grant replied, his tone neither furious nor patronizing – simply stating facts, but even so it made Alfred wince. "Things in Europe are getting worse for Britain and they know it, therefore they're going to need friends and in a little less than ten years after a Civil War we're quickly becoming a valuable friend to have. Politically speaking, keeping us in their corner is a highly strategic move –- as of right now they have their newly upgraded Dominions, Portugal, and very few other nations willing to back them. If war breaks out again for them now, things would not be in their favor."

Alfred's head and heart sunk as his eyes closed to hide his anguish. Was it really so easy to just buy forgiveness in this world? Does one not just condone war, but aid in it too and be absolved by paying a sum and releasing some territory? According to how he had been raised it took something far beyond material wealth and political standing to find forgiveness…but then again, the one who had taught him was the very man who put the price tag on the bandages that would supposedly heal the wound left behind by his four years of suffering.

That, apparently, he only wanted to heal because it was strategically convenient.

"As for them taking responsibility for the ' _Alabama Claims'_ ," Grant added, breaking Alfred's thoughts, "internationally speaking, they have officially avoided that by agreeing to this deal, and I approved it."

All color seemed to drain from Alfred's face in an instant. His eyes widened and his hands shook as he stared speechlessly at his boss. The man held his gaze firmly as Alfred tried to regained control of himself, but was far too enraged. His fists clenched and his color returned with a vengeance seconds before he snapped.

"You're going to let him get away with this?" he demanded.

Grant said nothing and remained stoic as Alfred continued to scream.

"After what he did to me? After what he let happen to OUR people? I saw everything, EVERYTHING! I felt, and heard, and smelled, I tasted, and bled everything out there with those men and you're just going to let him walk away? We fired the guns on each other, we lit the bombs and charged the fields, but an enabler should never be seen as innocent and free of consequences. You were there – you were FUCKING there, sir! How the hell could you just let him get away with murder?"

Tears were streaming from sky-blue eyes, now darkened and shinning with deep-seated emotion and pain. His body was shaking again, but it was no longer from the shock of disbelief; it was from years of grief, years pent up anger, and years of uncontrolled horrors all released in a moment of righteous indignation. He was remembering things again – things he had worked so hard not to think about for the years he'd been traveling and trying to move on. He didn't want to think about war and hospital tents any more, he didn't want to think about mass graves or innocent people screaming as their homes burned; he didn't want to think about prison camps or his own prison beneath this very building. He didn't want to think about Fort Sumter, Gettysburg or Shiloh; he didn't want to think about Lincoln's assassination or this continued Restoration period where so many places were still suffering so much.

What he did want to think about was that there would be some justice in all of this.

"The British Empire is as much a ' _he_ ' as the United States of America is ' _you_ '."

Alfred hadn't realized that he had been no longer staring at his President, but down at his desk, so neatly stacked with mounds of paperwork. The avatar looked up, and hard brown eyes met blue.

"You've been gone for the better part of six years, and still the government has continued to run without you. Have you not considered why? Or perhaps why you were more on those battlefields in your mind when your body was here in Washington all those years during the war?"

Alfred's breaths calmed, but even in his pause he couldn't answer. Not one for waiting, Grant continued.

"I have my theory, Mr. Jones, and I believe you're more a product of the people than you are the government of this land," Grant said, finally coming around his desk without breaking eye contact with Alfred. "I believe your kind are more of a pulse for the people than you are anything else – a kind of jugular of society. While you must someday realize you have as much responsibility in the political world as you do in the public world, you will forever be more connected to the more overwhelming, and mostly irrational, emotions of the latter; and that, Alfred Jones…"

As Grant came to a stop before Alfred, nearly coming nose to nose with the avatar, he leaned in and gave the other a long, hard look.

He may have only been a human, but Alfred was forced to remember this human's role and who this human was, what he had done, and that his decisions were the ultimate law here. However much sway Alfred had with his standing, he was reminded of just how inexperienced he was in using it.

He really did know so little.

"Is why you should remember, when seeking out the greater good for all, that must put one's own personal prejudices aside."

Neither Alfred nor President Grant said another word, and finally, when Alfred appeared to have calmed down, Grant took a clipped stepped back and returned to his desk. He took his seat without returning a look to Alfred, and the avatar lowered his gaze and felt a mixture of shame and solemn understanding. He gave his President one last look before turning to leave when the ceasing of the President's pen stopped him.

"Shortly after Johnson was inaugurated and you left Washington, a package that had arrived for you during the war resurfaced. Mrs. Johnson entrusted it to my wife when we moved in and she left it in your room."

Alfred didn't ask the questions; he simply nodded his head and said a soft thank you before taking his leave…and was glad to finally be free of that room.

* * *

Alfred had had his own quarters in the White House since its remodeling after its burning in 1814, and thankfully it was as far from the lower floors as he could get. Though rarely used, Alfred found the room in excellent upkeep when he set the key down on the dresser and beheld the wooden crate on the bed. Given that the bed was freshly turned and made, he guessed the housekeepers had been alerted he'd be coming; the box must have just been placed.

Given the day he had had, Alfred wasn't sure he could handle any more surprises; truth be told, he had actually planned to leave on the next train out of town as soon as his meeting with the President was over with, but now it looked like he would have to stay for the night.

It didn't help that the sound of rain hitting the windows meant changing his mind was no longer an option, making him sigh and throw his coat over a nearby chair.

That just left him and the box.

Alfred had always been a curious fellow; war had certainly made him a more cautious one, but he was still curious nonetheless. He took the first note and read the flourished handwriting of Mrs. Grant, explaining how the box had been left in her care from two previous First Ladies that only withheld it because of his horrid condition during the war. He tossed that paper aside and took up the slightly yellowed paper beneath the twine wrapped around the crate, carefully unfolding and scanning the contents…

They left him slightly confused.

_'Alfred,_

_As the man who bestowed our common tongue on your world, I find myself ashamed that it so impossible to communicate now.'_

Alfred swallowed and found himself wanting to stop, but was unable to help himself from continuing.

 _'For all I cannot bring myself to say, yet all that needs to be said...I am returning your last gift to me, one I admittedly did not cherish for what it was until years too late. Perhaps in your hour of need you can appreciate this…and see just how much you've grown_ –'

Swallowing, and with shaking hands, Alfred tore his gaze away from the letter and set it on the bed. With both hands he grabbed the sides of the crate and pried it open, dropping the heavy lid on the floor without a care and digging through the straw packing until he unearthed a strangely familiar blue surface beneath the gold. Grabbing it from inside the box, he unraveled the once carefully folded faded blue coat and examined the wool article in his hands.

Holding the garment out in front of him, the memory of walking down the snow-covered streets of Yorktown and leaving without it came to mind.

He blinked and slowly lowered his arms as he remembered the last time he had seen Arthur during the Revolution. Arthur had been the one in the prison cell that night, and when he had seen him he thought he had been slightly out of his mind. It had been freezing beneath the garrison, and Alfred remembered leaving his coat when he felt he could do nothing else to show Arthur that he still cared. He couldn't recall how many times Arthur had told him growing up what a valuable part of him, as America, he was…so really, Arthur had lost a part of himself in that war too. The Revolution had lasted for five years.

Alfred sobered at the thought and turned back to the letter on the bed. Holding the coat in one hand he reread it, finally reading the conclusion and signature before setting it down again and turning his full attention to the coat.

The color wasn't as vibrant as it had been that night, but it was still noticeable and clean; the wool was frayed in areas and not as tightly knit, but it was still usable to someone of the right size. The coat would never fit him again, he could tell just by looking at it. He had grown; he was bigger and stronger than he was back then.

It wasn't useless…but it wouldn't do him any good anymore.

Arthur had known that when he sent it to him almost eight years ago, and Alfred wondered how much growing he had done since then. His nation was back together, and for better or worse his people had begun the same process. His government was still trying to reestablish itself, but as Grant had said he seemed more attached to his population than to his heads of state…other than his tie to his President, Alfred had to admit he agreed with him.

Did that mean Arthur was the same way? He couldn't say for sure.

But what he could say for sure, was that he still had a long way to go and needed more time to think about Arthur. How he felt when reading the bottom of the letter told him that.

'–  _and find it within yourself to forgive me for what I've done._

_Sincerely and Respectfully,_

_Arthur Kirkland'_

 

_**~Fin~** _

 

* * *

 _Original Notes from the Author (2014)_ :

Howdy, everyone! I'm sorry it's been forever and a day since I last uploaded something and for that I apologize to high heaven and beyond. It's been a crazy life I've been livin' as of late, and as the semester reaches the halfway point it's only getting nuttier. This request fic has been in my queue for a while now (and again I am SO SORRY FOR THAT) so I really wanted to get that done for my reader who requested it. :) I wish you had left a name, darlin', but for now, this one's for you –  **Anonymous**!

Challenge/Request: - _Something with Arthur and his government during the American Civil War, using the CSS Alabama as it was still something of a bone of contention between Alfred and Arthur_ -

ON WITH THE NOTES! There's a TON of history in this one!

-The  _CSS Alabama_ (1862-1864) was one of, if not the most controversial ship to have ever sailed in the American Civil War. She was commissioned by the Confederate States of America, by a man I'll get to in a second, on behalf of President Jefferson Davis to the John Laird Sons and Company shipbuilders of Great Britain. The ship was built in absolute secrecy on an island off the coast of Portugal in neutral waters, but made frequent trips to Britain and France to resupply often. Though the government of Great Britain never officially claimed knowledge of her or her sister ships' existence when they were built or launched, an inquiry after the fact known as the "Alabama Claims" (1872) brought out that both Prime Minister Palmerston and the Foreign Secretary, Lord Russell not only knew of the ships…but knew they should have never been allowed commission. The end result of the heated debate between the Northern Union (the Confederate South in 1865) and Great Britain was to quietly sweep the Empire's involvement under the table and restitution in the sum of $15.5 million paid for the damages done. However, in paying this amount, forcing Canada to open certain disputed fishing grounds to American use (though I encourage you guys to read a little more into how Canada still managed to come out on top there, :) well done, Canada), and sharing more of the Great Lakes, Great Britain managed to "officially" avoid any involvement in America's Civil War as far as the books go. Though the matter still ended up in MY American History book in school, they avoided internationally acclaimed involvement. But on the flip side, this incident did strengthen U.S/U.K./Canadian relations in some…really weird way. It's kinda complicated. XD I encourage you guys to research it more.

**~~ **MINDBLOWING HISTORICAL NOTE** ~~**

-Now, it's not too often I come across something in American history that makes me go "O_O OMGWTFBBQIHADNOIDEA" but THIS was definitely one of those moments. In getting my source notes for this fic, I discovered that during the negotiations for the "Alabama Claims" a Senator of ours was actually trying to ask for upwards of $2 billion (which was jaw-dropping ridiculous in those days) or the annexation of Canada. I. Had. No. Idea. This proposal apparently gained some support and was brought before the British subcommittee handling the go-between with America and Britain…and let's just say they were trying to pick up their jaws like I was. Needless to say neither deal happened, both because Britain was outraged over such an idea and most Americans (the President included) were less than enthusiastic with such a dunderheaded suggestion. So, I say this now with all humility: to all my Canadian readers and to my Canadian Consultant especially, I am SO sorry for being so bewildered about and not taking your fears over our very flawed Manifest Destiny seriously. T_T You have my sincerest apologies.

On a brighter note, the Treaty of Washington was the FIRST time the United States ever recognized Canada as a dominion and not a colony of the British Empire. :) Plus!

-The "Southern Gentleman" here is none other than James Dunwody Bulloch. If you don't recognize the name I shan't flog you, so don't worry :). During the American Civil War, James Bulloch was pretty much the Confederacy's foreign ambassador/naval liaison to Great Britain. His main goal was to build up a navy for the South to help them rival the North's naval superiority (which aided in the North's economic and militaristic advantages). So to do this, he played on Great Britain's love of two things: their predisposition to America's South in the conflict, and the foreign love of American cotton. Bulloch's plan was to pretty much build his fleet of the few reserves of Southern gold and mass amounts of Southern cotton, and the result was quite a few ships, crews, but most notably the  _CSS Alabama_. Bulloch was described as an extremely proud Southerner, a savvy businessman, and a successful privateer. After the Civil War ended he and his other family members who served the South were not granted amnesty and chose to live between Canada and England. Just so ya know, the Bullochs have blood that stretch from suspected coconspirators in the Lincoln assassination (Lincoln was President of the Northern Union during the war), to James Bulloch being the uncle of Theodore Roosevelt, the 26th President of the United States of America. History is just wild like that, no?

-CHARACTER INTRODUCTION! I'd like you all to meet Emrys/Cymru/Alban/Wales! ^_^ He's a darling fellow, really, and I hope you all like this first round meeting with him. I've actually been challenged by my Beta editor to work on my head-canon history of Arthur as she is working on her head-canon of Antonio (Spain); and as you all have probably guessed by now, I love a good challenge. Though making OCs scares the living you-know-what out of me, I'm going to give it a shot and hope for the best. I am by no means an expert speaker of the Welsh or Celtic languages, nor do I know any (IF YOU ARE ONE, PLEASE DROP ME A LINE!) so I will not attempt to use any long phrases in Emrys's native tongue…I'd likely screw it up ROYALLY. However, the few words I did uses go as follows:

- _Lloegr_  – The ancient Welsh name for England/the realm of King Arthur ( :) I thought it'd be a cool "modern" nickname Emrys would give Arthur)

- _brawd_  – Means "brother"

\- Emrys – An older Welsh name that means "Immortal"

I know I've probably missed some notes, so please if you have any questions please feel free to drop me a line. :) Thank you so much to everyone who has been continuing to follow me and read my stories in my absence, I still love hearing from you all and I owe so many of your replies to all of your wonderful reviews and comments and I cannot thank you enough for your patience; you all truly humble me beyond words. THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH AGAI ! As of right now I have to he up in 3 hours and I need some sleep. XD I hope you all have enjoyed this update, and  **Anonymous** , I hope you've enjoyed your fic! Until next time, darlin's!

Sincerely,

_General Kitty Girl_

* * *

 

_**New Note (2019):_

_I was very hesitant to post this fic, as it is far from my best and greatly simplifies very complex aspects of America's Civil War -- most notably, I failed to address the primary cause of the Civil War: slavery. There is no doubt in my mind nor dispute among historians that the Civil War was absolutely about slavery; I never once subscribed to the "states' rights" and "stance on tyranny" arguments. I ultimately decided to upload this fic because I'm trying to preserve all of my works from FF.net, and also to give myself motivation to keep striving towards becoming a better writer. I thank you all for taking the time to read this work._


End file.
